


Sherlock’s Laboratory, Episode 2: Intrusion

by berlynn_wohl



Series: Sherlock's Laboratory [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Anal Sex, Dark, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Forced Orgasm, Genetic Engineering, Kink Meme, M/M, Other, Prostate Massage, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:23:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Did you teach it that?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock’s Laboratory, Episode 2: Intrusion

_This fic is part of a series,_ Sherlock’s Laboratory _, an AU where Sherlock performs scientific experiments with smutty results. This episode is a fill for two prompts on the kinkmeme:_  
   
 _1\. “this fandom needs[more tentacles](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12432.html?thread=63839376#t63839376), please...”_  
   
 _2\. “Double penetration with Sherlock as the receiver. Any pairing is fine, even…[tentacles](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/11848.html?thread=61619272#t61619272)...” _

 

 

 

 

John woke in the dark. He was alone in the bed, but Sherlock was somewhere nearby, close enough that John could smell him.  
   
“John?” A whisper in the blackness. And then Sherlock was kneeling beside the bed.  
   
“John. Come see what Father Christmas brought.”  
   
A glance at the bedside clock told John it was 4:17 AM. Just about the time he would have woken up on Christmas Day as a child. Today, however, was the sixteenth of July.  
   
John let Sherlock lead him by the hand down the stairs and into the sitting room. On the coffee table was a cardboard pet carrier, which had holes punched into it and whose top flaps folded into handles. Even from across the room, John could sense that something was inside it, something alive.  
   
As Sherlock opened the top, John frowned and said, “I really don’t think our lifestyle is conducive to owning a -- _oh shit what the fuck_ \--”  
   
The moment he looked into the box, John recoiled in horror and leapt backwards. With one hand over his mouth, he gasped, “What. The fuck. Is that.”  
   
“They,” Sherlock corrected. “There are two.”  
   
“Jesus Christ. Oh Christ.”  
   
“If you have some sort of phobia, I didn’t intend to--”  
   
“No, it’s not that. That’s just not what I expected to see, in a cat carrier.”  
   
John approached the box again and peered inside at the churning mass. Sherlock was right; upon closer inspection he could discern two different creatures. One was sandy-brown, the other a darker bronze. How many tentacles there were between the two of them, John could not say. He watched them gently writhe and twist, following the sinuous lines of their limbs. They didn’t seem to have heads, or even much in the way of bodies, just a slightly rounded place where all those limbs converged. Nor could John find any eyes or mouths.  
   
“They’re quite harmless. Watch what happens when you put your hand in.” Sherlock lowered his hand into the box, and tentacles of two different colours reached out to anchor themselves to it, encircling Sherlock’s wrist and arm.  
   
John reached into the box, palm down and fingers spread. A second sand-coloured limb freed itself from the tangle in the bottom of the box. The tip swayed in mid-air for a moment, then touched itself to the tip of John’s index finger. As the tentacle continued to uncoil, it slithered and twined itself round John’s finger, up and over and back under, tickling his palm, and finally settling itself in several tight coils round his wrist.  
   
The creatures’ freckled, earth-toned skin was dry but velvety-soft, flawless, like a baby’s. The first little touch sent a thrill through John’s body, but as more and more of the tentacle made contact, the feeling settled into a tingling warmth, and a sensation of calm and well-being seemed to spread up his arm.  
   
“That is brilliant,” he breathed. But he didn’t think much about the feeling at the time. Wasn’t it always a thrill to touch a tame exotic animal?  
   
Sherlock tugged his hand away, and the tentacles that had been holding him unfurled and returned to the slithering pile in the box. He pointed at the sandy one first, then the bronze one. “I named that one Didi, and that one Gogo.”  
   
“Hello Didi,” John said, then immediately felt silly about it. He nudged the tentacle on his writst until it loosened its grip and retired into the box. “They’re kind of cute, actually,” he mused. “But it seems like there was something you were supposed to tell me, hmm, oh yes, _where the hell did these things come from_?”  
   
“It, er, started with an investigation into resistances.” Sherlock spoke haltingly, uncharacteristically uncertain about the answer he was giving. “Specifically, resistances to alkaloid and metalloid poisoning.”  
   
“Alright.”  
   
“And then it sort of, progressed, to genetic engineering…”  
   
“Now Sherlock, you know that when you list ‘genetic engineering’ as a _middle_ step, it always makes me nervous.”  
   
“I know.”  
   
“So then what happened?”  
   
“When I realised I had the resources to create a hybrid creature… I couldn’t _not_ do it.”  
   
“I’m going to skip the part where I ask what this is a hybrid _of_ , and move on to the part where I notice that there is not _a_ creature in here, but two.”  
   
“Well, after I’d successfully done it once, I reckoned I could do it again in half the time.”  
   
“Ah, yes, that constant refrain in the field of applied genetics. ‘Practice makes perfect.’ So how do they live? How do they breathe? What do they eat? _Do_ they eat?”

“As far as I can tell, they absorb nutrients through their skin. These two were based on more primitive life-forms, which had thrived floating in a solution that I mixed. I just pour some of that solution on these two, and they appear to metabolise it somehow. They must do, because they’ve been growing, and I haven’t provided them anything besides.”  
   
“What’s in the solution?”  
   
Sherlock sat on the sofa and reached over to close up the box. “Oh, bit of this, bit of that. Sodium, potassium, urea, lactate, citrate, some proteolytic enzymes…”  
   
“That would explain why it enjoyed my arm. It was probably eating the sweat off me. Sweat contains urea and lactate and sodium.” John joined Sherlock on the sofa, where he continued his line of questioning. “What do you plan to do with them? What purpose do they serve?”  
   
“They’re _pets_ , John. What purpose does a goldfish serve?”  
   
“Right, but a minute ago you said you were researching, what was it, alkaloid poisoning?”  
   
“Oh, yes, that. I engineered Didi and Gogo’s predecessors to be resistant to specific poisons. Once I isolated the genes that provided that resistance, I intended to find out if those genes would be compatible with more complex life-forms.”  
   
“And…did it work? Do these two have those genes?”  
   
“I don’t know. Yesterday I was about to inject Didi with aconitine, but… I just couldn’t. She’s too advanced. She elicits sympathy.” Sherlock said this as though he were annoyed by it.  
   
“So Didi’s a girl?”  
   
“Who knows? But it sounds right. Boy and a girl.”  
   
“And since when does anything elicit sympathy from you?”  
   
“I know,” said Sherlock. “I’m baffled as well.”

 

   
*****

   
   
They pretended they owned an octopus, so the clerk at the exotic pet store recommended a special tank, designed specifically to contain those notorious escape artists. Sherlock kept Didi and Gogo in the tank on the coffee table whenever he went out. When they were home, John became accustomed to finding Sherlock on the sofa, both creatures in his lap, sometimes measuring and examining them, other times simply stroking them absentmindedly with one hand while texting with the other. As time went on, the creatures grew, until only one could fit in his lap at a time. From then on, Sherlock tended to favour Gogo.  
   
One morning, John found himself alone in the sitting room with the creatures secured in their tank. This was unusual. Sherlock was in front of the tank whenever he was home and awake, and he was home more often than John was. But he’d left that day when the sun rose, to join Lestrade in checking out a skeleton that had been discovered in the Heath. Regardless of whether it was a recent murder victim, or merely the remains of a plague victim buried centuries ago that the earth had decided to burp up, Sherlock’s curiosity had been piqued.  
   
John had ten minutes before he had to leave for the surgery. He sat on the sofa and watched the creatures; their limbs slithered about the tank in a calming sort of way; it was rather like watching tropical fish. In the last fortnight, John had observed that the creatures were growing, both at about the same rate. Today, he noticed that Gogo was still getting bigger, but Didi appeared to be shrinking. Gogo had always been the bigger of the two, but Didi seemed smaller even than she’d been last week.  
   
On the coffee table was a leather-bound journal, which had appeared about the same time as the tank. John pulled at the snap on the strap to open it. Panic shot up his spine as, for a moment, he expected to find an eerily revealing record of the progress and activity of these creatures, an ominous diary exposing Sherlock’s deepest fears about these mysterious beings he’d created and their gruesome potential. Instead, the pages (only two filled so far) contained lists of numbers, the length and weight of the creatures. John examined these numbers, and the more mundane of his suspicions was confirmed. Didi’s weight was listed as:  
   
3.72 kg  
3.93 kg  
4.24 kg  
4.59 kg  
4.42 kg  
4.21 kg  
3.99 kg  
3.44 kg  
   
John unlocked and lifted the lid. Didi was half-buried under Gogo, but he pushed Gogo’s limbs aside to get at her. Three of Didi’s tentacles darted out and up John’s wrist, as though she’d been hoping for his arrival. He lifted her out easily, and her remaining limbs encircled his arm. He cradled the little sand-coloured being, forgetting for a moment what he’d intended to do, as her touch gave him a slight, pleasant buzz. When he came back to himself, he turned his arm over so he could take a look at what was, for all intents and purposes, her body.  
   
He palpated her, feeling for organs. There seemed to be a few sacs or glands in her middle, but that information wasn’t very helpful without any reference. He reached back into the tank to compare her body temperature to Gogo’s; they were similar. He felt out comparably-shaped sacs in Gogo, and detected no discernible differences. Gogo tried to grasp him, but he resisted.  
   
John then pried Didi away from him a bit, looking for any sort of vent or orifice, but found nothing. The creatures must absorb things through their skin, as Sherlock asserted…but then how did they excrete? _What_ did they excrete?  
   
In any event, with no orifices, no verbal communication, and no knowledge of what was even inside her, John was going to have a difficult time determining what, precisely, was causing Didi to shrink. He’d have to ponder that more on the way to the surgery.  
   
He lowered his arm back into the tank to replace Didi, but she didn’t budge. John had to use his other hand to pry her limbs away from him, employing a scraping motion to get some off without allowing her the opportunity to reattach herself with others. As he lifted his arm out, Didi reached feebly out for him once more, clinging to his wrist.  
   
“Didi,” John chuckled, “I have to go to work!” He yanked his arm out once and for all. “I’m sorry! But here.” He took up the solution bottle and poured some on her. Her little limbs rippled as they caught drops. John secured the lid and gathered his keys and his coat. As he reached back to pull the door closed behind him, he glimpsed Didi in the tank, being engulfed by the greater bulk of Gogo.

   
   
*****

   
   
Not long after, John and Sherlock returned to the flat after spending a harrowing six hours tracking a coked-up Hungarian through four nightclubs, two parks, a church, and the Met. John rushed right through the sitting room; he needed the loo. When he returned, he found Sherlock in his chair, holding a limp, lifeless Didi in his hands.  
   
“Oh, Sherlock. I’m so sorry.” John stood next to Sherlock and squeezed his shoulder, then bent down to pet Didi. She was cold and soft.  
   
An awkward silence ensued, one that, as a doctor, John knew well. He could feel that Sherlock was grieving; he wanted to respond to John, but feared that the instant he opened his mouth, he would succumb to turbulent emotions. And so he stayed still and shook slightly.  
   
John thought this odd, as Sherlock had made it quite clear in the past that he did not find grief to be a useful emotion, and so dispensed with it entirely. What power must Didi have had over him, to affect him more than human beings he had known who had met such a fate.  
   
At last, Sherlock mumbled bitterly, “What does it matter, anyway. Just a dumb animal.”  
   
It would have been quite sad, had Sherlock actually felt that way, the same way he’d felt about slain bystanders in the past. But John thought it even sadder that Sherlock would say such a thing now, to hide how he truly felt about this innocent little creature.

 

   
*****

 

John tapped on the bathroom door. “Don’t use all the hot water,” he yelled. “I need it next.”  
   
Sherlock emerged five minutes later, wearing nothing but a towel and…Gogo. John pointed and said, “Did you take him in there with you?”  
   
Sherlock retrieved his dressing gown from where it lay crumpled on the sofa. “Well, he was all slung around me on the sofa, and I knew I needed a shower, but I thought, _Why take him off just for that? He feels nice, and the water won’t hurt him_.” He wrapped the dressing gown round himself and Gogo both, and tied it.  
   
“Alright, well,” John eyed the pair warily. “Just ten more minutes, and he goes back in the tank. He’s not joining us for dinner.”  
   
Sherlock nodded vaguely, fidgeting like he was going to go for his clothes any second. As soon as John left the room, he sat on the sofa and cuddled with Gogo some more.  
   
All through dinner, he fidgeted in a similar manner.

 

   
*****

   
   
Boredom wasn’t so excruciating as it used to be. True, Sherlock did still feel restless and useless and angry, but having Gogo next to his skin all the time overlaid his black mood with a pleasant buzz that made the situation bearable.  
   
In fact, though he wasn’t proud to admit it, Sherlock was a bit worried that Lestrade might call. That would mean that he would have to put Gogo away in the tank, get dressed, and leave Gogo all alone in the flat. The very thought made him clutch his pet tighter to himself. In response, Gogo curled his limbs more tightly round Sherlock. Now Sherlock’s arms were trapped at his sides. But he didn’t mind. It made him feel warm and secure, and anyway, all he was doing was lying on the sofa.  
   
Then his nose began to itch. He tried to flex against Gogo’s grip, to indicate that he needed to be freed, but Gogo only held him tighter.  
   
“Gogo, I need my arm,” Sherlock said, and continued to wriggle ineffectively. Where was John? Oh yes, at the cinema. Sherlock began to shout for Mrs Hudson, though he wasn’t sure if, when she responded, he would ask for help removing Gogo, or for her to just scratch his nose for him.  
   
He called twice more, but there was no response.  
   
One of Gogo’s tentacles snaked its way from where it lay on Sherlock’s chest, up over his collarbone, and across his neck. When he first sensed the path the limb was taking, Sherlock thought that Gogo was going to scratch his nose for him. But that didn’t happen. Instead, the tip of the tentacle continued to slide up Sherlock’s throat, over his jaw, and finally against his lower lip.  
   
It occurred to Sherlock that he had not yet endeavoured to find out what Gogo tasted like. He willingly opened up to admit the adventurous limb, which greeted his mouth by gently caressing his lips before making its way inside.  
   
Gogo tasted softly spicy, like autumn, something like cinnamon or pumpkin, but not quite either. And when Sherlock began to suck on the appendage between his lips, the heady feeling that had always come through Gogo’s skin was increased ten-fold. It made him feel good, so he continued to suck contentedly, like an infant. Things became a blur.  
   
He’d begun to perspire, and eager limbs undulated all over his body, brushing aside the edges of his dressing gown so that they could absorb the sweat from his chest, his forehead, the creases between his thighs. His arms were still fastened to his sides, but the tickling of limbs all over him made him feel floaty and free. Then he felt a sharp little pleasure through the fog; something was rubbing the wet slit of his half-hard cock.  
   
Of course. It was perfectly natural that Gogo would want to do that. In fact, Sherlock realised there and then, it was his own fault that it was happening. Since he had gotten lazy about giving Gogo the solution he’d mixed, and had taken to feeding him by putting him on his body, Gogo was lacking some of the things he needed. Citrate, and proteolytic enzymes. If he didn’t get everything he needed from sweat, he’d obviously have to resort to harvesting other fluids from Sherlock, ones that provided those things.  
   
The limb coiled round and round his cock with ease and grace, and gave him delicious rippling squeezes from root to tip, whilst it continued to harvest pre-come from the slit. Another limb curled along the smooth, hairless skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh. Sherlock didn’t need to be asked twice; when he felt the nudge there, he simply let his knees fall open, made himself open and vulnerable, and Gogo lovingly caressed the sweat-slick skin until he found the entrance to Sherlock’s body. Dry but sleek and slippery, a little pressure and a little wiggling was all it took to get inside.  
   
It didn’t feel anything like John did inside him; Sherlock had no complaints about John, but the fact was that John’s fingers didn’t fit quite perfectly inside him, and John’s cock could get greedy in the heat of the moment and take its own pleasure over Sherlock’s. Gogo’s subtle but powerful limb moved like it was made solely to drive him mad with pleasure. And when it pressed on Sherlock’s prostate, firm and rhythmic, Sherlock’s suspicions were confirmed: Gogo needed him to produce lots and lots of come. He must have been very hungry.  
   
Sherlock wanted to make Gogo happy. He wanted that tentacle in him, milking his prostate hard. He wanted to make thick, hot spurts to feed his pet. He was willing, but terrified: it was the first time he’d ever climaxed having absolutely no choice in when the moment of truth would arrive. Gogo just worked him until he couldn’t take any more pleasure, and when his cock spurted, Gogo fed on it, warm, velvety skin absorbing every drop that spilled out.  
   
Sherlock relaxed and sighed, wiggling his toes, feeling sated and heavy and perfect. He wanted to thank Gogo, but his mouth was still full. Gogo remained suspiciously tense all around him. Sure enough, Sherlock had hardly a chance to catch his breath, and the squeezing and pressing recommenced. Well, that was alright. He was still a young man; he could come a second time, if that’s what Gogo needed.  
   
But Gogo didn’t stop. The third time wasn’t fun for Sherlock anymore. It was just him being manipulated with gluttonous enthusiasm by a creature who was ultimately unconcerned about any pleasure it might or might not be inducing. Sherlock perspired with the effort of being overstimulated, which only urged Gogo on.  
   
The fourth time Sherlock came, it was dry, and ached. Gogo seemed to understand that he had drained Sherlock entirely, and at last relaxed his various grips, still clinging, but only to absorb the remaining traces of sweat and semen on Sherlock’s skin.  
   
Wrung out, exhausted inside and out, and at last released from his duties, Sherlock fell into a deep sleep. When John returned home, he bypassed the sitting room and went directly up to bed. Being accustomed to not finding Sherlock there, he went straight to sleep.

 

   
*****

John woke in the middle of the night to the bleeping of Sherlock’s voice mail notification. He felt for the mobile on the bedside table. Sherlock had sixteen unread texts and four voice mails, all from Lestrade. That sort of neglect was very unlike him. John switched the phone off and vowed to confront Sherlock about it in the morning.

  
*****

   
   
John thought he was closing the bedroom door quietly behind him, but the window was open, to let in the breeze, and the resulting change in air pressure made the door slam unexpectedly.  
   
Sherlock, dozing, naked except for Gogo nesting on him, did not react to the sudden noise.  
   
John said, “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea for you to sleep naked with the window open.”  
   
Sherlock grunted. His head lolled to one side, and he stared at the billowing curtains. “Perhaps you’re right. No one interesting ever comes in, anyway.”  
   
John shut the window and undressed. “Well, listen,” he said as he slid into bed, “since you _are_ naked…why don’t you, you know, put Gogo back in his tank for a little while?”  
   
Sherlock continued to gaze into the middle distance. “Why would I want to do that?”  
   
“…So that I can have sex with you?”  
   
“I don’t need to put him away for that, Plenty of room, see?” Sherlock spread his legs to demonstrate.  
   
“Don’t you think it’s a bit creepy to do it with a genetically engineered life-form attached to you?”  
   
Sherlock snorted. “Who says it’s creepy? _Society_? Did your mother tell you to tuck your shirt in, don’t slurp your soup, and never have sex with a man if there’s a septopod in the room?”  
   
“Has it occurred to you that perhaps I just don’t want to _share_ you for this event?”  
   
John noticed that Sherlock was still wearing that same smile. It wasn’t quite smug, it wasn’t quite beatific. It was something in between, and he’d been smiling that way almost continuously for the last few days. Not that John didn’t enjoy seeing Sherlock smile, but he knew Sherlock, was attuned to his habits and moods. It was disturbing to see him display more than the faintest or briefest of pleased expressions. And to not see his expression change during their argument was even more perplexing.  
   
Just then, one of Gogo’s tentacles unhooked itself from Sherlock’s waist and swayed over to nudge John’s wrist and wind itself affectionately up his arm. That same warm tingle spread from all points of contact, like it had when Didi first touched him, only now more intense. Gogo had grown considerably, and this tentacle was much larger.  
   
“Did it occur to _you_ ,” said Sherlock, “that having Gogo with us might enhance the experience?”  
   
John had a feeling, like a minute before he would have refused such a bizarre offer. But that minute seemed a long time ago. As Gogo’s warm, smooth limb twisted its way up and around his bicep, he felt that pleasant buzz loosening his inhibitions. There was a stirring in his groin, more urgent than the one that had motivated him to come into the bedroom in the first place. Beneath the light-headed pleasure was a competitive urge; he intended to show both of these lissome, quixotic creatures who was responsible for pleasuring Sherlock in this flat.  
   
“Perhaps you’re right,” he slurred. “So long as Gogo doesn’t mind…?”  
   
It took John a moment to modify his standard missionary stance in order to accommodate Gogo’s presence, but he had no real difficulty mounting Sherlock and accessing the relevant orifice, and they soon fell into their usual rhythm. He and Sherlock had been together long enough for the sex to become routine, though not yet long enough to necessitate purposely breaking that routine in an attempt to combat crushing boredom.  
   
Sherlock’s body put up little resistance, and opened sweetly. John savoured the first few strokes, moving with slow and deliberate care, forgetting, for a moment, the presence of their strange little visitor.  
   
“Ooh, you feel so good inside,” John breathed. “Sometimes when I don’t top for a while I forget that.”  
   
Sherlock was silent, which was not unusual enough to be disconcerting.  
   
Gogo’s limbs were moving constantly, swishing over both their bodies. John barely noticed the tentacle that insinuated itself in that space where his pelvis tapped against the backs of Sherlock’s thighs. He paid no mind when it hooked itself around Sherlock’s cock to stroke him off; _save me the trouble_ , the thought. It did give him pause, however, when the wiggling tip of another tentacle probed around the ring of muscle that John’s cock was currently piercing.  
   
“Oh,” was his first reaction to the contact. Gogo ignored him, and continued to press his way inside Sherlock’s body, alongside John’s prick. John found this annoying. “I’ve got this part sorted, thanks, I don’t need any help from you.”  
   
The additional stretch and the hot squirming inside forced a yelp from Sherlock, then a thin, high, “ _Yessss_ …” He seemed suspiciously unsurprised by Gogo’s intrusion. He lifted his legs, trying to open himself up more.  
   
John watched Sherlock’s body shift beneath him, saw the look on his face, and reconsidered his earlier negative reaction. It did feel nice, in a strange way, that writhing tentacle, sometimes squishy, sometimes firm, always warm, rubbing against the length of his cock as he slid in and out of Sherlock. And then, when that limb wrapped itself round and round John’s shaft _while it was still inside Sherlock_ , God, he really had no more objections at that point.  
   
“Jesus, what’s going on?” he said, unable to stave off an incredulous grin as he thrust into the delicious new sensation.  
   
“He’s hungry,” Sherlock grunted. “He wants your spunk.”  
   
“Fuck, I think he’s gonna get it.”  
   
Then something else occurred to John: Gogo had seven tentacles. Two encircled his arms. Two were wrapped round Sherlock. One was inside Sherlock. One was on Sherlock’s cock.  
   
…Where was the seventh?  
   
The question was answered for him immediately. Something smooth and pulsing was snaking its way across the small of his back and down the cleft of his arse. It was warm and adventurous and it soon made clear that it wanted inside. And if John thought _that_ was so “creepy,” too bad; the creature had his arms pinioned. His only available movements were back and forth, to thrust into and out of Sherlock. Every time he pulled out, the tentacle, still wrapped round his prick, came with him, and each coil caught on Sherlock’s rim, eliciting shrieks of ecstacy.  
   
The seventh limb’s initial penetration lacked the benefit of lubrication, but it was done so gently, so teasingly, it only made John want it worse. Once the tip of it was in, it patiently flexed and loosened his arsehole until he was well ready for more. As soon as it sensed that he was pushing back for it, it gave him everything he wanted, and a few more inches besides. It probed him more deeply than anything he’d felt before, but the depth was only the beginning: the thing had _technique_. The tentacle did not suffer the limitations of length or flexibility that a finger or penis did. It could touch _everything_ , rubbing him in a perfect, sinuous way. It caressed and prodded his insides until they yielded more pleasure than he’d ever imagined was possible. Every movement filled his vision with stars. And it never gave him cause to fear that it would injure him. He could feel how delicately it moved inside him, skirting his inner walls but never with excessive force. And once it found his sweet spot, if he had any shred of objection left, he forgot it.  
   
“Fuck,” John gasped. No, it was too soon. Sherlock hadn’t finished yet. But, “I’m going. I can’t stop.”  
   
“Do it,” Sherlock cried. “Give him what he wants.”  
   
John was past the point of refusing. It was so wrong, but he no longer cared. He was sharing his Sherlock, and _it felt so good_.  This strange creature, this thing that did not even exist on Earth a month ago, was forcing an orgasm out of him more powerful than anything he’d ever experienced. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t _think_. The only thing he could do was fuck Sherlock as he clawed and kicked and shouted.  
   
The bed shook and shuddered, rocked by these two helpless, pink flailing humans and an aloof being that pleasured them pragmatically. Long after John’s orgasm dwindled to languor, Sherlock was still squirming and gasping, wide-eyed, as the tentacle continued to plunder his insides, soaking up what John had spilled.  
   
In the exhausted quiet after, Gogo’s limbs swept across their skin, absorbing all the hot, sticky fluids they had secreted.  
   
John panted, “Did you teach it that?”  
   
“Teach--? No, no, how I am I going to teach him anything?”  
   
“That thing knew _exactly_ how to fuck me.” John rubbed his belly. “God, it’s like it’s still in there. My prostate feels like someone used it as a punching bag.”

  
Back in his right mind now, John put Sherlock’s words and Gogo’s deeds together: He thought of how a boa constrictor’s entire body was designed to squeeze its prey to death. A shark’s body was little more than a propellant for the killing machine up front. And likewise, Gogo seemed built for the sole purpose of extracting the fluids it needed from any beings that happened to be nearby. The very thought of this, the notion that John himself had succumbed to this creature’s wiles, was enough to make him feel like he could get hard again.  
   
But he needed a piss, badly. He rolled off the bed, fell to the floor when his legs gave way, and somehow got himself downstairs.  
   
The first thing he did after relieving himself was go to the fridge and suck down a litre-bottle of water in three long pulls, gasping between each. Even in Afghanistan he had never felt so dehydrated. No wonder Sherlock seemed constantly dazed, and never wanted to do anything anymore.

*****

Lestrade came to the flat. Fiercely indolent, Sherlock stayed upstairs and refused to see him. Seeing Lestrade would mean he would have to put Gogo away.  
   
“He’s been ill,” John explained lamely.  
   
Lestrade wasn’t buying it. “Sherlock’s never been ill before.”  
   
John flung his arms out in frustration. “I’ve never been flatmates with someone whose turn-ons include abandoned rail stations and rigor mortis before, but here we all are.”

 

*****

John was folding laundry when Mycroft arrived. They said nothing to each other, only nodded. John abandoned his task and went up to Sherlock’s room.  
   
“Mycroft’s downstairs. He wants to see you.”  
   
“Be a darling and tell him on my behalf precisely where he can go.”  
   
“Tried that already,” John lied. “He’s very insistent. Wants to take you to lunch, for some reason.”  
   
“I don’t feel like going out.”  
   
“I know. But listen.” John sat at the edge of the bed and stroked Sherlock’s ankle, where Gogo couldn’t reach. He spoke quietly, conspiratorially. “If you refuse to even go downstairs and see him, Mycroft will get suspicious. He’ll find out about Gogo in about ten seconds, you know he will. And then I’m afraid he might take Gogo away from you.”  
   
Prior to Gogo’s creation, John would have expected Sherlock’s reaction to such a threat to be something along the lines of, “I’d like to see him try.” But now, pathetically compromised, Sherlock appeared genuinely fearful of the prospect of losing Gogo. He clutched the creature closer to him, and it in turn hugged him tighter.  
   
“And it might be worse than that,” John said, seeing his opportunity and seizing it. “He’ll probably hand Gogo over to government scientists, who will want to perform all sorts of painful experiments on him.”  
   
A tiny squeak, “No,” was all Sherlock could get out.  
   
“So what you need to do is, put Gogo in the carrier -- here, I brought it up for you -- get dressed, go downstairs, and have lunch with Mycroft like everything is normal.”  
   
“I think you might be right,” Sherlock croaked. He unhooked Gogo from his shoulders and ribs, and placed him in the carrier, murmuring apologies all the while. Then he got up off the bed and stood up straight, trying to look like his usual self. It was only a momentary squaring of his shoulders and shake of his head, but John caught it. With that gesture, Sherlock was acknowledging that he’d not been himself. Perhaps he even felt ashamed of how he’d changed. But if that were true, it only meant that Sherlock knew perfectly well that Gogo was having a negative effect on him, and he just didn’t care. That, to John, made the situation far more horrible.  
   
John followed a dressed and groomed Sherlock down the stairs and into the sitting room, where Mycroft was waiting.  
   
“Sherlock, look at you,” Mycroft lamented. “You’re wasting away. What have I told you about eating properly?”  
   
“What has the doctor who installed your lap band told you about eating properly?” Sherlock sneered. Five minutes away from Gogo and he was already himself again. That gave John hope.  
   
“Let’s get you the Sunday Roast at the Savoy, and I can tell you all about my visit with Mummy.”  
   
As Mycroft put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to herd him out the door, he glanced back and nodded as John mouthed, “Thank you.”

   
   
*****

Alone in the flat for the first time in ten days, John didn’t waste a single second. He grabbed two petri dishes and a scalpel from the kitchen table -- just because Sherlock had a room of his own for a lab didn’t mean the lab didn’t still find its way into the kitchen, the bathroom, and occasionally the laundry -- and made his way upstairs. He also took a screwdriver from the kitchen drawer, expecting he might have to take the door off its hinges, if he couldn’t break the lock or bust it down.  
   
To his surprise, the door was unlocked, and swung right open. Thinking back on it, Sherlock had never discouraged John from going into the lab -- something else, something inexplicable, had always kept him away.  
   
John bypassed all the inscrutable apparatus, interested only in any device that looked like it might be, or contain, refrigerated storage. In fact, there was a full-sized commercial refrigerator/freezer in the back corner. John opened the freezer; it was mostly empty, just a tray of test-tubes and a vacuum-packed plastic bag rendered opaque by ice crystals. John removed the bag. The shape inside was unmistakably Didi.  
   
John opened the bag with the scalpel, using the same tool to hastily cut a small chunk from Didi’s frozen body and another from one of her limbs. He dropped the tissue samples in a petri dish and closed it up. He found the vacuum-sealer and used it to close the bag again, then put Didi back in the freezer.  
   
That was the easy part.  
   
Back in the bedroom, John opened the pet carrier to find a docile Gogo still inside. He hauled the box down to the kitchen, where he’d cleared some space on the table, but then reconsidered: perhaps the bathtub would be better.  
   
He put on gloves, to prevent distracting skin contact, then took Gogo out of the box and put him in the tub. Gogo didn’t seem to like the cold porcelain, but remained where he was, curling in on himself. He’d never demonstrated much inclination towards locomotion. Good.  
   
Regrettably, owing to his lack of knowledge about Gogo’s physiology, and his inability to get Gogo out of the flat and in front of an imaging device, John did not know where would be the most advantageous place to cut. He assumed it would be the least risky to go for the end of one tentacle, and despite the less than ideal venue, he hoped to make it as swift and unintrusive as possible. He would take a tiny slice out of Gogo’s flesh, then try to bandage it, if he was able. He would explain to Sherlock later that Gogo had flailed and cut himself on something.  
   
John put a second empty petri dish next to Gogo in the tub. He leaned in with scalpel in hand. One plump tentacle rested atop the others; he held it with his free hand and made two quick, clean slices, extracting a sliver the thickness of a credit card.  
   
Gogo instantly grabbed the scalpel right out of John’s hand. The piece of flesh fell onto the porcelain as John recoiled. Gogo brandished the scalpel, the tentacle swaying to and fro slightly. John held perfectly still where he stood. Then Gogo launched the implement, flinging it as one would a throwing-dagger. But he telegraphed his intention by cocking the limb prior to the strike, and John easily dodged it. The scalpel ended up embedded in the wall over the toilet.  
   
John grabbed a bath towel from the rack and covered Gogo with it, hoping to neutralise him by bundling him up before dashing into the sitting room to stuff him into the tank, towel and all. He secured the lid. Inside, Gogo seemed agitated, slapping a limb or two against the glass, but soon settled down.  
   
In the bottom of the tub, the extracted tissue remained. John scooped it into the petri dish.  
   
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said.

 

   
*****

   
   
Sherlock was splayed on the sofa, on top of the half-folded clean laundry, when John returned from Bart’s hours later. As usual, he had Gogo on him, and was only most of the way into his dressing gown.  
   
“You came back down here after you fetched Gogo from the carrier,” John said.  
   
“Brilliant observation,” Sherlock deadpanned. “I was bored with the pattern on the bedroom ceiling.”  
   
“You know what are really interesting to look at,” John said, “are crime scenes. Wouldn’t you like to go see one of those? I know Lestrade would like you to.”  
   
Sherlock grunted.  
   
“How would you feel about maybe putting Gogo in his tank for a few minutes?”  
   
Sherlock stretched and turned toward the wall, shoving a stack of flannels off the edge of the sofa. “The idea doesn’t appeal to me at all, actually.”  
   
“The tank is right there. Just for a minute. As a favour to me?” John even went over to the tank and lifted the lid off, to make it easier for Sherlock. Sherlock just glared.  
   
“Hmm, I just had a thought,” John said. “I meant to thank Mycroft when he was here, for the lovely flowers he had sent to my aunt when she was in hospital. I should call him now. And it seems like there was one other thing I’d meant to tell him. Oh yes: ‘Your brother spends all day attached to a tentacle monster whose very existence is an affront to God and Nature.’”  
   
John saw Sherlock’s disdain turn to fear. Sherlock gently pried Gogo off himself and placed him in the tank. John slammed the lid down and locked it. Then he and pointed said, “That thing? Is dangerous.”  
   
“ _What_ are you nattering about now,” Sherlock sighed, collapsing back onto the sofa.  
   
“Sherlock, I think Gogo killed Didi.” The utter lack of surprise on Sherlock’s face frightened John. “Did you already suspect that? Did you know?”  
   
Sherlock attempted to dismiss this assertion just by averting his eyes. “Why would you think that? How could he have even _done_ it? With his sharp fangs and talons?”  
   
“While you were gone, I went up and took a sample of Didi’s tissue, and then I…did the same to Gogo.”  
   
“You _cut_ Gogo? Now who’s the monster?”  
   
“Would you shut up for a second and listen? I went to Bart’s and I did some tests to compare the samples. I found Gogo’s tissue to be full of potassium and citrate and all the other things he eats. But Didi’s had almost none of those things, even though you used to feed her just the same as you fed Gogo. Her tissue was dessicated when she died. I think Gogo literally sucked the life out of her, and now I think he’s doing the same to you.”  
   
“John, you’re delusional.” Sherlock gestured at the tank, and the spongy, lolling creature inside. “Look at him. He is harmless.”  
   
“When I cut him, do you know what he did? He snatched the scalpel right out of my hand and chucked it at me. I was four feet away, but he knew where I was. He sensed right where to throw it. He knows more than we think he does.”  
   
“First of all,” Sherlock said sharply, “you deserved it. Second, he’s not _magic_. He probably located you by feeling the vibrations through the floor when you moved around, like any animal would do.”  
   
“I was holding perfectly still when he aimed at me.”  
   
Every word John uttered seemed to prove more and more to Sherlock that John was an idiot. He unlocked the tank and took Gogo out. Enunciating every word to emphasise their ridiculousness, he hollered, “Alright, Gogo, you’ve been found out. We know you’re sentient. We know you can understand every word we say, and see us, and read our thoughts. So you’d better strangle us both to death before we hand you over to the boys at Area Fifty-One.”  
   
Gogo didn’t move, save to ripple slightly in order to balance himself in Sherlock’s arms.  
   
“Oh my, what a cold-blooded killer we have here,” Sherlock said. “Thank God you arrived in time to save me.”  
   
“Fine. Fine! Waste away and see if I care.” John left Sherlock to it, storming out and up the stairs, yelling back, “I hope you two are very happy together!”  
   
John didn’t sleep that night. Sherlock slept like a baby in Gogo’s arms.

*****

**Might require your assistance Thursday AM. Stand by.  - JW**

  
   
 **Must depart at 1130 for Joburg, but available ‘til then. Mycroft Holmes.**

 

   
*****

John got into bed fully clothed at midnight. Sherlock was fast asleep, with Gogo slung round him, no surprise there. John sidled up to Sherlock, and the moment Gogo felt the touch of John’s skin, it tensed and uncoiled two tentacles into a defensive stance. John ignored this, and said softly, “Sherlock.” Sherlock was sleeping like the dead after what John had slipped into his tea; John’s tone and volume would never wake him up.  
   
John caressed exposed patches of Sherlock’s skin. “Sherlock,” he cooed. “Let’s make love.”  
   
Whether it had interpreted the words, the tone, or only the touches, Gogo relaxed and reached out with one limb to make his usual introductory touch to John’s wrist. John let Gogo have one hand, and with his other reached into his pocket for the syringe.  
   
“Sherlock,” John said once more in a sing-song whisper, and then jabbed the needle into the middle of Gogo’s body.  
   
Much to his relief, the powerful combination of sedatives and muscle relaxants worked as quickly and effectively on Gogo as it would have on a human. With his tentacles all gone limp, John easily lifted him from Sherlock’s body. Beneath where Gogo had been seated, Sherlock’s ribs where frighteningly prominent.  
   
John carried Gogo down to the kitchen and placed him on the wooden block on the worktop. It disgusted him to look upon this creature, to think that this _thing_ had been inside his body, had pleasured him.  
   
In the next room, a fire crackled in the fireplace, incongruous considering the balminess of London’s belated summer.  
   
“I’m very sorry about this,” John said, as he eased a drawer open. “I actually know of methods for doing this sort of thing to a person quickly and painlessly, but I just can’t be certain that those methods would work on _you_. Frankly, the cocktail I gave you just now was a lucky shot.”  
   
Gogo remained motionless on the block.  
   
“So, I apologise,” John continued, “but I have to be certain that what I’m about to do stays done. And I have to admit, I _might_ get some satisfaction out of doing this.”  
   
He lifted the meat cleaver.

 

   
*****  
 

   
John scraped the twenty-three disparate parts of the erstwhile Gogo into the cardboard pet carrier. He brought the box into the sitting room and knelt on the rug, between his and Sherlock’s chairs. The box was a bit larger than was convenient; he had to watch his hands as he shoved the entire thing into the fireplace. He sat patiently and waited until the box and its contents burned to ashes. His only thoughts were of guilt and regret: if Gogo had been an ordinary human, and had done the things it had done to his Sherlock, John would have killed him weeks ago.  
   
He made coffee. He was exhausted, but he intended to stay conscious. He didn’t want Sherlock to wake up alone.

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Эпизод 2. Вторжение](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2286555) by [ph_craftlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ph_craftlove/pseuds/ph_craftlove)




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